


Tell Me To Hold On

by notsomagicath



Series: An Object in Motion Stays in Motion [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (some tags may not apply until later chapters), Aliases, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Exy (All For The Game), First Kiss, First Love, First Meetings, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Neil Josten as Abram Davis, Neil Josten as Nathaniel Wesninski, On the Run, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, andriel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-01-15 16:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsomagicath/pseuds/notsomagicath
Summary: Neil Josten and Andrew Minyard have always been inevitable. But what if they found each other just a little sooner?(Andrew never met Neil until their time, but Abram Davis haunts them both.)





	1. Just A Little Longer

Nathaniel Wesininski has been Alex, Chris, Stefan, and every name he can’t remember. Today, his name is Abram Davis. 

_ Just a little longer and he’ll be free.  _

He repeats the words over and over in his head.  _ Just a little longer. Just a little longer. _

If he stopped to truly comprehend how long he hoped this lie would go, he’ll have to accept that his sanity won't last that long. 

But none of it matters. Not if he can’t make it through this town. 

The air conditioning cools Abram’s skin through the thin fabric of his baggy shirt as he presses his elbow onto the bar of the push doors. The halls are full, but everyone is engrossed in the buzz of conversation, perfectly oblivious to his presence. Frankly, he’d like to keep it that way. Abram puts the combination into his locker and tugs a stack of books into his arms, shifting the spines until he can balance them on his left forearm. 

The sound of the bell ringing nearly scares him into dropping everything, but instead he manages to restrict his movement to a minute slump against his locker, taking deep breaths to steady himself. It’s hard to believe that the normal sounds of a school are making him tick. 

\----------

Everything’s all in order. 

First period is his first introduction of the day, and it’s plain to see that his anatomy class couldn’t care less about a new student. 

Second period: German IV. Abram doesn’t bother smiling at anyone, but a dead-eyed blonde senior he vaguely remembers from Anatomy’s eyes follow him as he takes his seat. 

Third period AP English brings the surprise that the blonde is one of two. Which is which, he has no clue. It doesn’t matter. 

“And remember. You will not have a school-written final exam in this class. All your energy at the end of this year will be spent on studying and preparing for the AP exam.” 

Abram copies the board into his notebook, but he knows full well that, if he’s lucky, he won’t be there to take the test. 

\----------

“Abram, right?”

It seems that the lunch table he’s chosen wasn’t so empty after all. 

He nods vaguely, and questions his decision to reuse a name. This particular high school requires proof of previous exy experience to try out for the team, and all he had was his mother’s old paperwork from when she enrolled him in an exy camp in each town they passed. Never more than a few days at a time, but the name stayed the same. Abram Davis.

It was too difficult for him to forge another document, and he won’t be using this name for much longer, anyways. 

Besides that, Abram’s got this right. He’s the correct age for a high school student, barely eighteen. His now medium brown hair is a far cry from the dirty blond he wore as Stefan, and his contacts are hazel instead of green. 

“I’m Aaron,” the boy who called his name continues, stiffly extending his arm for a handshake, “And that’s Andrew.” He gestures towards a carbon copy of himself, sitting at least three seats away and pointedly looking right past them. 

“Congratulations, you’ve met us,” Andrew drawls, making eye contact for those words before lifting his fork, “Now assume we’ll never speak to you again.” 

“Works for me,” Abram presses his lips together in a parody of a smile before reaching for his plastic cup of water, raising it to his lips and ignoring Aaron’s frustrated eyebrow raise towards his twin.

“I can’t decide if you think knowing us is a privilege or a burden,” Aaron huffs, only half-serious. 

“Neither,” hums Andrew, hazel eyes locked on Abram’s as he wipes an invisible smudge from the corner of his lips, “Both.” 

  
  



	2. What's Exy?

Hopefully, Andrew’s words would ring true. If they never speak to Abram again, he’ll never have to learn their names. If he never learns their names, he won’t have to forget them. 

Along with a recycled name, giving anyone time to know even the sound of his voice brings him that much closer to losing everything. 

He could never have predicted the sound of the twins’ lunch trays as they hit the table beside his on the opposite side of the cafeteria from the day before. Aaron’s tray lands first, with Andrew rolling his eyes before dropping his unceremoniously onto the tabletop, ignoring the water that sloshes over the edge of his cup. 

_ Ignore them and maybe they’ll go away.  _

“So, Abram,” Aaron says, and Abram barely suppresses a sigh, “are you trying out for the Exy team?” 

The question takes a moment to register. Of  _ course _ he is. If there’s something consistent for Abram to hold onto, maybe it’ll keep him grounded and sane for that much longer. But then again, it’s definitely for the best that these two know nothing about him. 

“Maybe.” He shrugs noncommittally. 

“Well… you should,” Aaron says, and Abram takes a sip of his drink in hopes of dodging whatever question he asks next, “Though I guess if you don’t have any experience then you won’t be allowed to. School policy and all. Do you play?”

By this time, Abram has taken much longer than is probably deemed acceptable to swallow his drink, and opens his mouth to answer, promising himself that it would be the last one. 

“A bit.”

“Oh, really?” Aaron’s face lights up for the first time since they’ve met, and Andrew watches his twin’s face intently, as if he’s trying to memorize the expression Aaron makes. “You know, Andrew plays too. And he’d never admit it, but he’s good.” 

Abram raises his eyebrow in askance and Andrew only mimics his shrug from earlier. Only when Aaron prods his side with an elbow does he reply.

“What’s exy?”

Aaron groans and shakes his head. 

“He’s always like this. I promise he’s great. We’ve been talking about trying to get scouted to play professionally.”

“Really…?” hums Abram absently.  _ So they’re good, then. Or at least they think they are.  _

Aaron seems to realize how it sounds and ducks his head sheepishly, but Andrew is completely indifferent.  _ He doesn’t disagree, then.  _

“What position?” Aaron continues, filling the resulting silence with yet another question. 

“My my,” Andrew deadpans, “Someone’s forward.” 

Aaron flushed a dark shade of red and glares at his twin, stuttering helplessly for a moment before resorting to simply giving Andrew the finger and shaking his head vigorously at Neil. 

“You get what I mean, right? Anyway. I meant like in Exy. I play backliner and Andrew plays goalie.”

Aaron continues to ramble about Exy, and Abram noticed Andrew watching his twin with a quizzical stare, assessing Aaron’s flying hand gestures and animated expressions. 

“Backliner.” 

Abram cuts him off, telling himself that  _ this _ is the last question and then he’ll leave, and Aaron whirls around to him and chatters on about playing the same position. Andrew, however, doesn’t stop watching Aaron and his only acknowledgement of Abram is a slightly turned chin in his direction. 

“You’re coming to exy tryouts tomorrow,” Aaron finishes, and he’s practically shaking with glee.

“Maybe.” 

That seems to mostly pacify Aaron, who only makes one last exaggerated pleading motion with his hands before practically shoveling his lunch into his mouth. Andrew doesn’t take his eyes off of his twin once, not speaking nor so much as glancing at his own plate as he eats blindly. 

“Stop it, you idiot. You’ll choke and never get to your stupid exy tryouts and I’ll have to fill out so much goddamn paperwork.” 

Aaron smiles, mouth full, and makes a point to take the smallest possible bite before laughing loudly and continuing at a slightly slower pace. Abram shifts as if to stand, but Andrew is already moving, hauling Aaron with him, and, without a glance in his direction, drags his twin across the cafeteria by the collar of his shirt and into the halls, all the while seeming to lecture him harshly in hushed tones. It isn’t until Abram catches an orange, white-capped bottle slip into Andrews hands out of Aaron’s pocket that he thinks he might understand. 

_ Tell me, Aaron, who were you today? And how many pills do you have to take before you’re someone else? _

It’s not until they’re about to step through the doors that they stop. Andrew turns, a heavy hand on his twin’s shoulder, and looks Abram dead in the eyes for a few seconds before leading Aaron away. Abram nearly feels guilty about watching them, but it doesn’t matter. If he learns about the twins, he’ll know exactly how to leave them. 

_ Tell me, Andrew, how many secrets are you keeping? And how many will I take with me when I disappear?  _

  
  



	3. The Bare Minimum

“Alright, kids, everyone grab your gear,” the coach calls, and Abram shrinks back from the crowd as the air is filled with the whoops of students and the zip of dozens of canvas bags being ripped open. “And,” she raises her voice higher to accomodate to the noise, “for all you who don’t have it, borrow some from the pile.”

A few students next to him groan dramatically and wrinkle their noses at the stack of old, very obviously used padding in the grass before resuming rummaging through their duffels. Luckily for him, Abram isn’t the only one to pull a set from the pile, with a few freshmen following behind him. There’s almost certainly a short joke to be made here, considering no one questions his approach with the underclassmen, but Abram keeps a neutral expression as he lugs the heavy padding and helmet off to the locker rooms with everyone else. 

The slams of the locker doors are too loud, the laughter too raucous, the room too crowded. Too many eyes for him to feasibly change without letting a scar slip. Abram rushes into the last free bathroom stall, and fumbles to shove the excessive amount of gear into the tiny space, earning himself a strange look from Aaron and a pensive once-over from Andrew through the lattice of their open locker doors. 

He. has no trouble ignoring them both. 

In spite of the cramped stall, Abram feels the buzz of adrenaline beginning to set in with each click of the gear buckles, and he’s thankful for the familiarity that comes with dressing for exy, even if the padding he’s wearing absolutely reeks with sweat and Axe body spray. 

He waits in the stall, watching through the gap between the door hinges and listening to the sound of the groups outside until he hears them begin to file out of the locker room onto the court, timing his exit so that he falls almost exactly in the middle of the pack. Abram nearly trips as he’s jostled by the nearly six foot redhead on his right, but regains his footing and shifts himself towards the end of the line, just far enough from the front to make the smallest impression, and just close enough to the end to be forgettable. 

The coach - Coach Torres - numbers each of them off, separating them into groups before ordering all of them to take four laps around the court, reminding them that the faster they get this done, the sooner they’re released for the weekend. As always, Abram keeps mostly to himself, right in the middle of the moderate speed group, occasionally running around the outside to let the coaches have a glance at him before returning to the middle. After all these years, he’s learned exactly what the bare minimum is to make the team. 

Next come the drills. All practically textbook examples of what exy practice would look like, and Abram makes sure that he throws a little shorter, misses a few more targets, and repeats to himself that he’s not supposed to have that much experience, aside from little league training. Though anything past that could be attributed to casual playing at home, or with friends whose names he’ll make up and immediately forget. Abram plans to slowly increase his skill by the end of the season, until he’s finally playing nearly at his best in the unlikely event that their team makes it to the finals.  _ That is, if he makes the team in the first place.  _

“Shots on goal,” Coach Torres reads off her clipboard, pairing the strikers and backliners and dividing them evenly among the four prospective goalies. “Minyard on goal three.” Aaron begins walking over, but the coach corrects him. “Andrew. Aaron Minyard on goal one.” 

Aaron frowns and reluctantly walks to the opposite end of the court, gesturing to Andrew to get moving when his twin seems to ignore the coach entirely. After a few barking remarks from the assistant coach, Andrew rolls his eyes and tucks his helmet under his arm before walking as slowly as possible towards his goal. 

Each striker gets five shots by themselves, and another five with a defending backliner, so Abram goes through the motions of the drill relatively quickly, eventually retreating to the side of the pitch to watch the other groups. He does, however, make a note that Aaron was certainly good, good enough that his dream of collegiate exy might be within reach. 

Goal two is obviously for the most experienced members, with a majority of the students already wearing jerseys with the school’s mascot on them, last names ironed on the back in bright blue block letters. The goalie is quite good, at least from Abram’s limited experience, and she blocks about two thirds of the strikers’ shots. By the time they’re done, she’s sweating buckets, but her helmet comes off to reveal a grin from ear-to-ear, glowing with the confidence of knowing she’ll be one of two goalies to make the team. 

Goal four seems to be the exact opposite, and completely composed of freshmen and sophomores, with a few being decently good and a majority fumbling for their footing and barely steadying their shaky hands. The poor goalie is practically frantic as a few cocky strikers throw too many careless shots at once, leaving no room for the exhausted boy to take a breath between blocks.  _ Assholes. _

Lastly, Abram turns his head towards goal three to find the assistant coach shouting helplessly at Andrew as he stands nearly motionless in the goal. Under a similar circumstance, anyone would have cowered in place and resumed the drill, but Andrew looked more like he was listening to a history lecture than an exasperated coach. Decidedly bored. A quick glance at Aaron proves that the assistant coach isn’t the only frustrated one. His chin is resting on top of his racquet net, and a crease between his eyebrows tells Abram that he’s attempting to telepathically urge Andrew to focus. Either twin telepathy doesn’t exist or Aaron is ignored entirely. 

That is, until Andrew raises his eyes to meet his twin’s, and Aaron tilts his head to the right for a moment. Then, mimicking Andrew’s bores stare, Aaron lifts two fingers over the curve of his net. 

_ Two _ , Aaron mouths for emphasis, and Andrew’s back straightens slightly as his only acknowledgement. 

It’s a common thing that twins have their own language, but this?  _ What the hell does two mean? _

He turns to study Aaron’s face, but the blonde is still staring across the court, and as two more shots whistle pass Andrew’s shoulder, a knowing smirk crosses his face. 

Abram’s incredulity turns to complete astonishment when Andrew suddenly drops into a guard stance and sends the next shot right into the helmet of the striker who sent it. Each striker takes their turn on goal, and every time, Andrew sends it flying at a terrifying speed, some sent straight into the backs of other player’s knees, knocking them off their feet. With the last striker’s shot, he knocks the assistant coach’s clipboard from his hands. 

From beside him, Aaron hums in approval as the entirety of goal three drags themselves over to the benches to nurse their various bruises, mouthing the word  _ shutdown  _ as Coach Torres blows her whistle to signal the end of tryouts. 

Abram remains frozen on the spot, eyes glued to Andrew as returns to indifference and nonchalantly throws back a plastic cup of Gatorade like a shot. The rest of the students file back into the locker rooms, already chattering about how well they think they did, but Andrew moves in the opposite direction, making his way towards Abram and unstrapping his gear as he goes.

By the time he’s reached him, Andrew’s padding is mostly off, tucked neatly under his arm, and Abram fully comprehends for the first time that Andrew is a good three inches shorter than him, placing him around five foot nothing. A height that should have made it near impossible to guard such a large goal so easily. In fact, Andrew’s own racquet, propped up in his hand, towers over him by a fair amount. 

“Surprised?” Andrew deadpans, rolling his eyes as Abram struggles for a coherent sentence, completely at a loss for words. “Shut your mouth, Abram. You’re practically drooling all over the gear you’re  _ borrowing _ .”

Slowly, with a look of mock surprise, Andrew raises his hand and slowly extends his middle finger right under Abram’s chin, producing a quiet  _ clack _ as he closes his jaw for him. Then, with a sickly sweet smile, Andrew turns on his heel and salutes him over his shoulder with a frivolous flick of the wrist, still flipping him off even as the doors of the court slam shut behind him. 

  
  



	4. Two to the Right and Six to the Left

On Monday, Abram can’t help but notice that Aaron is decidedly off. His eyes are sunken and his figure gaunt, the sheer exhaustion in his face putting on full display that his weekend had been anything but restful. 

Not only that, but Andrew is different too. Normally, he hovers at measured distance, ever watchful, but never too close. Today, he’s practically attached to Aaron’s side, stalking the halls beside him with a glare sharp enough to dissuade even the nosiest gossip from asking any questions. 

If Abram didn’t know any better, he’d think that Andrew was protecting him. But the anguished glances that Aaron send his twin tell him that Andrew has taken something from him that he would give anything to get back. And from the terse set of Andrew’s lips, he can say that his twin would sooner slam his own playing hand in a locker door than even consider it. 

Aaron is too pale, too shaken, too desperate to be just upset. His eyes are sunken into his head and the circles under his eyes look like they’ve been punched into his face. And yet, Andrew does nothing. He only leads him in and out of bathrooms and drops glasses of water in front of him, making sure to pour a little on his shoe first. It’s never been less apparent that they’re twins.

_ At least,  _ Abram thinks grimly as Andrew tugs Aaron out the men’s restroom door, the stench of bile trailing after them,  _ he now has a way to tell them apart.  _

\----------

Abram knows better than to think that he’ll get through all of his classes this year without any group work, but he can’t say he didn’t hope for it. Luckily for him, in German, he isn’t paired with someone new. 

“Andrew,” Abram greets his partner as the blonde dumps all his books onto the desk as the teacher shifts the seating chart to accommodate the pairs he assigned. 

“Abram.” 

They don’t speak for the rest of class. 

\----------

“The list is out!” 

At the shout of a group of juniors sprinting for the school doors, dozens of heads perk up and suddenly, from both sides of the long hallway, students start scrambling for their backpacks and tug their friends along as they push their way through the crowd towards the athletic department’s bulletin board. Abram follows, but the crowd is too thick to see the board. 

With a little careful maneuvering and more than a few unsubtle shoulder shoves, Abram finds himself right in front of it. He skims over the names on the list, catching the name Minyard twice.  _ Of course they both got in. _

Typed last on the list is  _ Abram Davis, Backliner, #35 _

There’s no time for him to celebrate before some bulky senior nearly throws him off his feet in his hurry to search for name. It’s about three seconds later when he lets out a defeated groan and sulks over to a little girl, maybe age twelve, with the same curly red hair and blue eyes, who tugs on his hand and begs her older brother to take her for ice cream. They look too similar to who he used to be. Too close to the life he never imagined having. Suddenly, Abram is overcome with the desire to have a little sister, with clear blue eyes and messy auburn hair staring up at him demanding piggyback rides. The normalcy of it is staggering. 

The daydream passes, but he can’t deny it was there. 

Right as he’s about to clear the pack of eager students, a black-sleeved arm reaches out and presses the back of a hand firmly in the center of his chest. Abram instinctively goes to shove the hand away until he notices the blond attached to it. A bored expression and no sign of having thrown up in the last two hours.  _ Andrew. _

“You got in. Aaron too,” he says breathlessly, and Andrew’s face betrays no surprise.

“He’ll be thrilled.”

Abram opens his mouth, but he stops and isn’t entirely sure if he should tell Andrew that he’d made the team as well. If he’s being completely honest, Abram has no idea how he’ll react, and that type of ambiguity scares him more than anything else. His every move is determined by predictions and going in blind is possibly the most dangerous thing he can do. Maybe he’s being paranoid. He can’t afford to be otherwise. 

“I’m assuming you made the team.”

_ Ah, nevermind then. _

“Yes,” Abram says simply, and predictably, Andrew’s face doesn’t so much as twitch. 

“Surprise,” Andrew deadpans, miming throwing confetti into the air with a sardonic twist of his lips. Then, crossing his arms, he says “I get home at four. Two streets to the right of the school entrance and six houses to the left. You’ll figure it out.”

“Directions to your house? Got a thing for stalkers?” Abram is half joking, but when Andrew looks him up and down, something burns under his skin. 

The blonde doesn’t even dignify him with an answer and pulls a sheet with the project instructions from his backpack, carefully devoid of creases, before throwing it flippantly in Abram’s direction. 

“I hope you’re not as useless as I predict you’ll be.” 

\----------

It’s not that Abram doesn’t want to walk with Andrew… No, wait. It is. In fact, he’s decidedly against it. He couldn’t say why, but either way, he staggers their walk so that he’s trailing him just enough to give an illusion of space, but close enough so he doesn’t get lost. Abram takes notes of his surroundings as he passes, because he’d rather not have Andrew tell him again. He doubts that Andrew would give him the directions again. 

After what seems like three steps later, he’s standing in front of the door that he just watched close behind Andrew. No doorbell, so he has to settle for knocking. 

Aaron, surprisingly, pulls the door open, and takes one tired look at Abram before retreating back into the house. All the bouncing energy from their first meeting is entirely gone, and Abram can’t decide if he’s already been informed of his visit or if he’s just stopped caring entirely. 

Regardless, Abram brushes past him before it occurs to him that he doesn’t know the protocol for showing up at someone’s house and announcing your presence. To be fair, he’s not one to have a fanfare every time he enters a room, but still, there’s certainly courses of action that aren’t the most courteous. 

“Oh!” his indecision comes to a screeching halt as a brown-haired man with a faint German accent bounds out of the kitchen, “Aaron, you didn’t tell me anyone was coming over!” 

Abram barely conceals the way his shoulders jerk upwards in a stifled jump, and Aaron rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t know, and it’s none of my business,” he says tiredly. 

“Huh,” the brunette’s forehead wrinkles slightly, “So the visitor is Andrew’s then?”

He looks to Abram for confirmation, and receives a shell-shocked nod in return. 

“Andrew!” he calls up the stairs, before whirling around to shake Abram’s hand, “Nicky Hemmick. Nice to meet you…?”

“Abram.”

“Abram! Cool name. Grilled cheese?”

A look passes over his face before Nicky sprints for the kitchen, and the click of the stove and a shuffle of plates and pans follow. Eventually, he peeks his head back out, hair slightly in disarray, and a smear of what looks suspiciously like butter on his forehead. And in his hand, a decidedly… cooked… grilled cheese, perched precariously on the edge of a tiny plate. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not burnt,” Nicky reassures him, “Well… maybe a little, but the char adds flavor, right?”

He can only silently nod again, and Aaron nudges past him, prying the plate from Nicky’s hands and taking a bite of the sandwich, wincing slightly as he carries it the rest of the way into the kitchen to eat. 

Abram takes in Nicky’s dark hair, tanned skin, and brown eyes. He’s considerably taller than the twins, and his sunny disposition is the opposite of the melancholy or otherwise aggravated attitude that the Minyards favor. Abram has absolutely no idea who he could be.

“I’m sorry… who are you?” 

Nicky’s face twists in confusion before settling into a friendly smile. 

“Oh, I figured they’d’ve already let you know! I’m their cousin. Latina mom,” he says, gesturing to himself, “Kinda explains the whole looks thing. I’m here more or less to take care of Aaron and Andrew, legally at least, until they graduate. And then it’s back to Germany for me,” his smile turns dreamy and he stares off into space. 

“Talking about your boyfriend again?” Andrew materializes out of nowhere. Aside to Abram, in a stage whisper behind his hand, he says “He never shuts up about it.” 

“Who can blame me,” Nicky twirls giddily, “He’s  _ perfect. _ ” 

Andrew closes his hand around Abram’s wrist and leads him upstairs, with a look that says  _ Alright, that’s enough. Ignore him. Let’s go. _

\----------

“Hey, I need to pee. Where’s the bathroom?”

Andrew gestures vaguely down the hallway to the right, not looking up from his half of the notes. (He’d split the instruction packet exactly in half, and tossed one part into Abram’s lap with a “Don’t fuck this up.”)

After two hours, it’s apparent that picking Berlin to study probably wasn’t the best decision. There’s just too much material to handle all at once. 

Abram’s muscles groan in protest as he stands, having been curled underneath him for the better part of their work time. Andrew obviously wasn’t going to clarify which door was which, and, frustratingly, every door in the hallway is closed, so Abram resorts to opening each door slightly and crossing his fingers that he doesn’t run into anyone. Aside from a few mishaps, (Aaron glares at him until he shuts the door, and Nicky passes him and gives him a strange look before shrugging and moving on by.) he makes it to the bathroom. 

As he flushes and washes his hands, Abram notes that the entire room is meticulously cleaned, with the aroma of a cheap air freshener heavy in the air. The trash can is bare, and even the stack of prescription pill bottles are empty. The bath mat is stained with what looks like soap and maybe vomit, and bottles of shampoo in the shower are tipped over onto their sides. Even as he leaves, the handle of the door is wobbly, and the wood around it groans under his touch, the blue paint cracking as he opens the door. 

Abram knows without looking that there’s the exact same color of paint underneath Aaron’s nails. 

But that’s none of his business. 

\----------

Andrew doesn’t even bat an eye when Abram nearly swings the door open onto his head. 

“Took you long enough. I figured you’d left me to do all the work.” 

“And you’re obviously very busy yourself.”

“Obviously.” 

Abram sits cross-legged as he’d been before, propped up against Andrew’s bed, but eventually slides down to lie on the floor as well, his right hip nearly brushing the blonde’s hair and a textbook held up over his face. 

That is, until he turns a page, the three hundred page book drops, and the cover comes away stained red. Before he can even comprehend what had just happened, his head is pushed forwards and a tissue pressed into his hands, Andrew tsking disapprovingly as he applies pressure to the bridge of Abram’s nose. 

“Idiot,” is Andrew’s only comment, but he replaces the tissues, throwing the bloody ones into a trash can and periodically releasing the pressure to check if the bleeding has stopped. Once he’s satisfied with the state of Abram’s nose, he takes a wet cloth from the bathroom and wipes away the excess blood, watching Abram with a focused intensity that he has no idea what to do with. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Andrew frowns at him, making one last pass with the washcloth before standing and throwing it into the laundry basket across the room. 

“Like what?”

Andrew only resumes his research in response. 

  
  



	5. Singed Fingertips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Sorry I haven't been updating as quickly as I was at the beginning! School has been kinda crazy lately leading up to finals, and I have a project due at the end of this week, but I've been able to squeeze in this little chapter before Thanksgiving break (which I'm hoping will allow me to write more)! Until then, I hope you enjoy!

“Vielen Dank für Ihre Aufmerksamkeit.”  _ Thank you very much for your attention. _

Andrew finishes the presentation neatly, and the two of them return to their seats. 

The rest of the class claps politely, and the teacher nods approvingly and makes a few last notes onto his rubric before calling the next pair to the front of the room to present. 

“I think we did well,” Abram whispers as the class continues. 

“Sprechen Sie Englisch im Unterricht?”  _ Speaking English in class? _ Andrew replies, eyes fixed straight ahead, a slight glance in Abram’s direction the only indication that he was talking to him. 

“Ja. Problem?”  _ Yes. Problem?  _ Abram switches to German, relishing in the fact that the word “problem” is the same in both languages. 

Andrew tilts his head to the left and then the right, hearing his spine crack at the base of his skull and pale throat exposed to the light filtering in the classroom’s dusty windows. 

“Nein, natürlich nicht,” he rolls his eyes.  _ No, of course not. _

\----------

The bold red A on the paper is proof enough that they’re a good team, though Abram is sure Andrew doesn’t want to hear it. Truthfully, he isn’t sure that he wants it either. Sure, it’ll be nice to have a reliable work partner for the next few months, but having a constant in his life is one person he’ll have to force to forget him, instead of just the other way around. He can’t wipe someone’s memory, but he could hurt them so badly they’d wish he could. 

“Maybe you’re not so useless after all,” Andrew comments the moment they’re out of the classroom. 

“Thanks?”

Andrew looks at him like he just suggested that pigs could fly, but he turns and stops right in front of him, in the center of the hallway. He stares up at him, unimpressed, until Abram shrugs and flicks his gaze to the side to break the eye contact. 

“You’re welcome,” Andrew deadpans. 

\----------

The shriek of the whistle signals the end of practice and Abram comes to. Well, it’s not like he’s been unconscious, but when there’s a racquet in his hands, it’s difficult to focus on anything other than the game. On top of that, this early in the season, Abram has to hold himself back. He makes sure that he hovers right in the middle of the group, neither good enough to be complimented, nor bad enough to be yelled at.

It’s practically muscle memory by now, but Abram takes his time, in spite of the cramped stall that only enhances the stench of sweat. Helmet comes off before he even reaches the locker room. Then off comes the jersey, then the padding, until he’s left with just the gym shorts, long socks, and a thin t-shirt. (All his practice clothes absolutely reek. He can only afford to wash them maybe once every week at the laundromat.) Then, the rest of the clothes come off and Abram ends up in whatever baggy clothing he’d worn to school that day, and he can leave. (He’ll sneak back shower here later, when the school is closed and he’s found something to eat.) On his way out, he ducks his head under a sink and dampens his hair to make sure that he appears to be showered. (Coach Torres had received stink complaints from the teachers who left their windows open as the team left school grounds. They were simply instructed to keep them closed for an hour longer, but now they’re all checked for wet hair before they leave, regardless of how they smell.)

The assistant coach nods at him as he passes so Abram heads for the exit, but the smell of cigarette smoke catches his attention. He follows it, until he’s standing halfway down the fence separating the sports fields from the busy street. 

Andrew, having changed at a surprisingly high speeds, is sitting on the other side of the fence by the court, barely off of school grounds, with a lit cigarette hanging loosely from between his second and third fingers. Every few seconds, he lifts it gingerly to his lips and takes a breath of it before exhaling it back out in a cloud. When he spots Abram, his last puff forms itself into a smoke ring. 

Abram doesn’t speak, only turning and sliding down until he’s seated, back flush against the fence and pressing slightly into Andrew’s back on the other side. In spite of the cool fall weather and multiple layers, he can feel Andrew’s body heat past the cold wire of the fence. That, in combination with the heavy smoke and bittersweet memories should be enough for him, but his fingers still twitch as if to pluck a cigarette from the air. 

“May I?” Abram asks without thinking, and he can practically feel Andrew’s eyebrow raise.

There’s a quiet shuffling of a box and the click of a lighter. A moment later and the air beside Abram’s left ear warms as Andrew lifts a cigarette to the chain links. Abram turns, and realizes that the cigarette is turned sideways so that he’d burn his fingertips if he took it blindly. 

Their fingers brush as he takes it. 

\----------

The cigarette is nearly burnt all the way down, and Abram still hasn’t taken a single drag of it. He doesn’t know exactly how many he’s gone through over the years, but he almost never does more than sit and breathe it all in. 

“You’re wasting my cigarette,” Andrew says, having turned to face the fence three and a half minutes ago when Abram twisted around to face him. 

“It’s not a waste.” 

“Really…” Andrew deadpans.

“By all means,” Abram frivolously waves it through the air, nearly singeing his fingers, “take it back and put it to better use.” 

“No, I don’t think I will.” 

  
  



	6. Shortie

It’s impossible to say if it’s because he’s new or because he simply isn’t up to par with Coach Torres’ expectations, but more often than not, the shout of “DAVIS. GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER” greets Abram’s every move. 

Abram’s going easy on them, not that anyone would know. 

Maybe this time around, he’ll have to pick up the pace sooner than usual. He’s certainly done the opposite for other schools, so getting better a little faster shouldn’t be a problem. Still, there’s the nagging fear that any glimpse of possible talent will send him spiraling into fame and blow his cover for good. 

Mistakes kill. Abram knows it all too well. His mother burned at least five pairs of socks when the bloodstains wouldn’t come out. 

“COME ON, DAVIS. PICK UP THE PACE.” 

Abram speeds up ever so slightly, finishing his lap around the court barely in front of the pack. 

“Better.” Coach Torres nods stiffly before she tightens her ponytail and ushers the crowd into the center of the court. “Alright, everyone. Count off for drills.”

\----------

“Hey, Davis,” Lucy Canmore, captain and offensive dealer, calls, rushing over as Abram leaves his stall. She reaches out with a now un-gloved hand and ruffles his hair affectionately, resting her left elbow on top of his head. 

“Canmore,” he greets her, offering a tight lipped smile. 

“Nice work at practice today.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, not bad for such a little backliner like you,” teases Lucy’s twin sister Eleanor, who Abram now recognizes as the talented goalie from goal two during tryouts. He shouldn’t have been surprised that talent ran in the family, not when their little brother James was the only freshman to make the varsity Exy team. 

The twins both place an arm on each of his shoulders and lean towards each other over Abram’s head. 

Without a warning, Abram is scooped up into the arms of Cole Kent, defensive dealer and without a doubt the tallest player on the Exy team. 

He’s placed gracefully onto his feet by the Minyard twins as they pack their gear into their lockers, and judging by the matching raised eyebrows, neither of them were expecting him. Abram must have betrayed some kind of surprise, because the twins snort with laughter and Cole grins widely.

“You see, Davis?” he laughs good-naturedly, “Shorties gotta stick together, right?”

Anyone within earshot sighs exasperatedly and muffling laughter behind their hands. Abram shakes his head lightly and rolls his eyes fondly. Nothing wrong with a little lighthearted teasing. No need to make a scene. 

The kids choke on their laughter when Andrew pulls his racquet from the carrier and knocks Cole’s knees out from under him with the butt of the handle. Cole sputters for a moment, but eases himself back onto his feet and laughs heartily, prompting cautious laughter from the crowd. 

“Okay, Minyard. I get it. No more short jokes.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. 

Andrew doesn’t dignify it with a response, and only turns his flat stare in Abram’s direction, tilting his head to the right to signal for him to move out of the way of the door. Abram side steps, but not far enough. Andrew bumps shoulders with him as he passes and Abram could swear he heard him whisper “shortie” under his breath. 

\----------

“Andrew, Aaron,” Abram greets the twins as they approach their usual table.

“Abram,” Aaron returns the greeting with a smile, immediately digging into his lunch. 

Andrew doesn’t respond, as usual, but instead looks down, takes a bite of his ice cream, and locks eyes with Abram as he licks the rest of the melted chocolate off his fingertips. Abram doesn’t break eye contact, even as his mouth runs dry and the tie of his hoodie feels as if it’s threatening to garotte him. 

“Stop staring, shortie. You look like an idiot.” 

Abram blinks slowly, and briefly entertains the idea that he may be running a fever. He presses a hand to his forehead, but it comes away feeling normal.  _ Strange. _

“I’m taller than you,” he protests lightly, but Andrew only rolls his eyes before returning to his food. 

“Hush, shortie,” Aaron jokes, waving a flamboyantly dismissive hand in Abram’s direction. 

A slam resonates down the table, and Aaron squeaks in pain. Abram looks up and sees Andrew calmly raise his fist away from Aaron’s non-playing hand. 

“What the fuck, Andrew?” Aaron hisses, inspecting his fingers carefully, gently moving each of the joints in an attempt to diagnose any possible damage, biting back a curse when he tries to bend his swollen ring finger. “What did I do? Seriously, Andrew. All I did was call him that stupid nickname…”

Andrew hums as if to say  _ you’re not wrong, for once _ .

Aaron winces as he pulls a roll of athletic tape from his backpack, muttering under his breath about  _ smashed fingers _ and  _ bruising _ and  _ inflammation _ . Andrew only scoffs at him. 

“Might as well have some practice if you’re going to be a doctor someday.” 

  
  



	7. Turn Me Away

“Sorry, kid. You gotta get outta here,” Mr. Benson calls, locking the gas station’s cash register. Abram nods at him, and hefts his backpack over his shoulder in preparation to leave. He’s halfway out the door by the time Mr. Benson speaks again.

“Hey… you’ve been showing up here a lot, and it’s none of my business… but… if your home life isn’t so good, come find me. Okay, kid?”

_ Whatever you’re thinking, it’s definitely worse, _ Abram thinks, but he nods grimly before letting the door clang shut behind him. 

\----------

_ Two to the right and six to the left. Two to the right and six to the left. Two to the right and six to the left. _

_ Shit. _

Abram comes to his senses just in time to stop his hand from ringing the doorbell. Carefully shielding himself from view, he takes inventory of himself. He’s absolutely soaked through, and it’s raining heavily. His bags are waterlogged, and his hair is dripping water all over the porch. Worst of all, he’d been on autopilot for at least half an hour.

_ Shit. Shit. Shit. _

_ Anyone could have seen him. Anyone could have reported him. Anyone could have followed him here and he wouldn’t have noticed.  _

_ SHIT. _

A quick glance around the street tells Abram that he got lucky. The rain ensures that the visibility is too low for someone to be watching him without being within eyesight. There’s too many variables in being a runaway. Vigilance is a constant. It has to be. Otherwise his next slip will send him tumbling back into the arms of The Butcher. 

He slumps against the door, and immediately stiffens as light footsteps sound and he sees Nicky’s brown eyes peek through the windows on the door. 

_ An amateur mistake,  _ he thinks.  _ So fucking stupid.  _

The doorknob clicks and Abram closes his eyes.

_ Please,  _ he begs,  _ turn me away.  _

“Abram?” Nicky says incredulously, “It’s almost one AM. What are you doing here?” He takes in Abram’s drenched hair and clothes. “Holy fuck, Abram. You’re absolutely soaked. Come in, I’ll get you some dry clothes and then you can explain what’s going on.” 

Nicky throws together a ham and cheese sandwich before ushering Abram into the living room, a plate forced into his hands. 

“Wait here.” 

Abram takes careful bites of the sandwich, standing resolutely in the corner of the room, far away from any furniture. The last thing he needs is to get the furniture wet too. Especially since he doesn’t plan on staying. 

“Okay, these are some of my old clothes, and I think they’ll be a little big on you, but they should work for now, and I figured asking the twins wouldn’t be the best idea.” 

Nicky thrusts a bundle of clothes wrapped in towels into his arms. 

“One towel is for your hair and the other is for the rest of you. I can put your shoes in the dryer if you like-”

“No, no, it’s alright. I’ll just go take them off.”

Abram slips his shoes and socks off of his feet and walks back the way he came to drop them at the entrance. The soles squelch when they hit the tile. 

“Well?” Nicky prompts when he returns, “Get changing. I’ll leave the room and I’ll be back in two minutes. Do you prefer coffee or hot chocolate?”

“Ummmm coffee?” Nicky nods in approval.

“We’re probably out of hot chocolate anyway.” 

\----------

“Okay, so I don’t think either of the twins are expecting you. Are they?”

Abram shakes his head no, taking another sip of his coffee. For the fifth time that night, he pulls the wide neck of Nicky’s shirt up from where it’s falling off his shoulder. As if it’ll make a difference when every garment he has on is practically swallowing him. 

“And I don’t remember inviting you,” Nicky pauses, and if he didn’t know better, Abram would think that the brunette is reading his trauma like lines from a book. “Abram, what’s going on? You can tell me anything, and I won’t tell the twins unless it’s alright with you.”

“I’m fine. Just went out for a walk and then got caught in the storm and got a little lost. I ended up seeing your street’s sign and followed it until I got here. No big deal. I’ll head back out soon and be out of your space.” 

“Abram…”

“Seriously, Nicky. Don’t worry about me. Everything’s fine.”

A cabinet slams open in the kitchen and Abram flinches. Nicky only sighs and mutters something about  _ Andrew _ and  _ crazy sleep schedule _ . 

“Aaron doesn’t really sleep either,” Nicky murmurs aside to Abram, “but he typically keeps to his own room, whereas Andrew takes satisfaction in shattering our collective eardrums.” 

“I didn’t think gossiping past your bedtime has been a thing since fourth grade sleepovers,” Andrew deadpans, sauntering into the room with a spoon and a bowl of ice cream in his hands.

When Andrew’s hazel eyes turn in his direction, Abram rises to his feet and hefts his backpack over his shoulder. He knows that Andrew wouldn’t ask questions, but he’s just one more witness. One more suspicion. One more person who will remember the quiet kid in oversized clothes that no one ever got to know. 

_ He has to get away. Who knows where he’ll sleep tonight, but it can’t be here. _

“You’re running,” Andrew says, and it almost sounds like a question. 

“No,” Abram lies. 

“Your hair is wet.”

“Damp.”

“Those clothes don’t fit you.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

Andrew stares blankly at Abram, and for half a second, his eyes linger on where the strap of his backpack tugged on the neck of the shirt and exposed his shoulder once again. No, Abram probably imagined it, but he can’t make himself take another breath until he self-consciously tugs the sleeve back into place. Andrew hums disapprovingly, and with one last unimpressed look for the pair of them, he sets the bowl on the coffee table and turns on his heel to walk back upstairs. 

“You left your ice cream,” Nicky shouts after him before slapping a hand over his mouth as he remembers how early in the morning it is. He sighs fondly before scooping the bowl into his hands and strolling back into the kitchen to put it away. 

With Nicky’s back turned, Abram immediately stands and gathers his bags. He probably has about thirty seconds to leave the room, and another two to pretend to be in the bathroom before he should be gone. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says aloud, and Nicky shouts some affirmation back at him, but Abram is already walking down the hall. 

“OH, and the couch is open if you need a place to stay tonight!” 

Abram doesn’t reply, and instead focuses on stripping out of his borrowed clothes. He inhales sharply through clenched jaw when his now-cold, dripping wet clothes stick to his skin. The clothes are folded mechanically into squares and set neatly onto the vanity. The toilet goes unflushed to keep from alerting Nicky. The lights in the bathroom stay on, and the door stays closed. 

In exactly forty-seven seconds, Abram is back on the curb, right outside the Minyards’ house, soaking wet once again. If he’s going to leave this town, now would be the best time. Using the rain cover, he could run unseen, catch a taxi to the city, and be in the next state in three hours. Then again, there’s the option to stay with Andrew, with his little family, and wait out the storm. 

Abram laughs aloud and nearly chokes on a mouthful on rainwater.  _ Ridiculous. _

Still, it couldn’t hurt to take one quick look at the option he’ll never choose. 

The lights are off in the living room, and Nicky is nowhere in sight. He must not have noticed Abram’s absence and gone straight to bed. 

_ He should probably be relieved.  _

And he is. 

He is. 

Abram mindlessly traces a window in the droplets on the window.  _ One more minute,  _ he promises himself.  _ One more minute until he’ll leave.  _

_ 60… 59… 58… _

When Abram reaches 19, the lights flicker on and he ducks out of sight, knocking his head on the edge of the window. He sucks in a pained breath through his teeth and lifts his hand to his forehead, but luckily, his hand comes away blood-free. A quick glance through the pane he wiped reveals Andrew Minyard, chin tilted down, standing so close to the coffee table that the fabric of his sweatpants brushes the wood. 

He’s holding a bundle of black clothing in his hands, and his knuckles go white as he slowly scans the room, eyebrows furrowed and a determined set in his mouth. His eyes stop on the exact spot where Abram had been sitting mere minutes ago and Andrew takes a slow breath, letting the meticulously folded clothes drop onto the couch. Abram shakes his head in disbelief. Then, Andrew’s lips twitch and his shoulder shifts as if to turn towards the window and Abram sprints down the sidewalk before Andrew can take another breath.

He doesn’t stop until he’s gasping for air and propped up against a stop sign to catch his breath. 

Abram will never fully understand Andrew. And he shouldn’t ever have the chance. 

But maybe running can wait for _ just a little longer _ . 

  
  



	8. Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It's been way too long since I've posted a chapter! I hope this is been worth the wait! :)

Boredom, of all things, seems to be the bane of Abram’s existence. Besides he murderous father, traumatic past, and hitmen tracing his every move, of course. All jokes aside, during the school week, he has at least eight hours of every day with an established alibi, far away from the public eye. On the other hand, weekends provide the perfect window of opportunity for one of his father’s men to spot him and drag him back to Baltimore before he can blink. Most of the time, Abram wanders around a small area of the town and makes sure to be in plain sight, drawing as little attention as possible. 

By now, it’s almost ten thirty on a Saturday, and the nagging reminder that he needs to find a place to sleep is fully present in the back of Abram’s mind. The late night crowd is slowly starting to filter in downtown, and he fully intends to use the mass of people as a cover to find somewhere to go for the night.

“Abram!”

_ That is, until the late night crowd included the Minyard twins. _

“Hey, Aaron.” 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Aaron replies cheerily, “Andrew and I were just walking around and looking for something fun.”

“ _ You _ were looking for fun,” Andrew corrects him,“I’m just here for the drinks.” 

“I think that counts as some kind of fun for you.”

Andrew shrugs and turns to Abram, raising his eyebrows in question. 

“Always running around,” he drawls, “Where to, shortie?”

“Nowhere,” Abram says, “I was just heading home.” 

“Oh please,” Andrew closes a light hand around his wrist, “You’re coming with us.” 

There’s no question in his voice, but his eyes offer a choice. 

“Yeah, okay.”

Aaron looks as surprised as Abram feels. Taking an invitation is an entirely foreign experience.

“Wait, actually? Every time I’ve asked you to hang out with us on the weekend you always say you have to do homework.”

“I’ve finished everything due Monday.”

“Well, you won’t hear me complaining,” Aaron says, continuing to walk down the sidewalk towards the flashing lights at the end of the street. 

\----------

The flashing lights, Abram soon learns, are a club, one with a line out the door and wrapped around the block. So many people. So many eyes. 

But backing out is no longer an option. Not when Andrew’s hand is warm on his wrist. Not when his fingertips brush the pulse point with every step. 

“We’re fucking underage, Andrew,” Abram says instead. “They won’t let us in. And I hate to break it to you, but none of us could pull some fake ID bullshit.”

“Who told you we were going to be let in?” Andrew asks, raising an unimpressed eyebrow and tightening his grip on Abram’s wrist. When Abram flinches slightly, Andrew’s hand drops, but he watches as his own hand brushes Abram’s.

“Yeah,” Aaron chimes in, and Abram flinches again. Andrew snaps his eyes towards his twin, jaw clenched, but Aaron doesn’t seem to notice.. “We sneak in all the time. Just go in through the back. They couldn’t care less if we’re there, as long as we don’t make a mess.”

Abram is dubious, and rightly so, but before he can fully drag himself away, Aaron has already picked the lock on the back door and they sweep into the crowded club. 

The trio pushes their way past the bar staff and Andrew and Abram snag a few beers each from a storage room on their way to the dance floor. (It’s worth noting that Aaron gives the stacks of boxes a wary look as if they 

The music gets louder between sips. (Abram tries his best to sip delicately, but before he knows it, he’s had two beers, and Andrew is finishing his fourth.)  _ It’s fine,  _ he thinks.  _ Just this once.  _ Abram lets a slow smile spread across his face, and in spite of himself, he sways on his feet on the music. A hand reaches out of the crowd and moves as if to tug him into the fray, but Andrew is between them instantly, with a look that promises a broken hand to anyone who so much as breathes in Abram’s direction. 

“Come on, Abram.”

They follow Aaron towards a secluded corner of the room, where the music is muffled but the lights still cast blue, purple, and green onto Andrew’s face. 

“Finally, some peace and quiet,” Aaron mumbles.

Apparently, they’re not the only ones with the same idea. Though the corner is much less crowded than the rest of the room, there’s at least four couples, laughing, at least five drinks in, all propped up against the couches and rambling endlessly into each others’ ears. There are lipstick smears on glass rims and more still on shirt collars. Everyone must’ve gotten the idea that this corner was a good place for alone time, but luckily for the three of them, it looks like, in a few minutes, they’ll be too drunk to function. 

Aaron makes an exaggerated noise similar to someone getting the heimlich maneuver and immediately turns on his heel towards the center of the dance floor, prompting an eye roll from Andrew. Instead of following his twin, the blonde strides over to the last unoccupied couch in the farthest corner of the room. Abram doesn’t follow him. At least, not until Andrew raises an eyebrow at him and Abram suddenly feels idiotic for not already being across the room. 

He climbs up next to Andrew, but eventually stands up on the cushions and settles himself on the back of the couch. Abram nearly falls as the pillows slip under his feet, but he catches himself. By now, there’s no point in denying that he’s tipsy. But Andrew? He’s barely buzzed. And he’d taken at least double the amount of alcohol Abram had. 

They sit in silence for a few songs, with Andrew leaving every few minutes to grab another drink from a passing waiter. With every trip, he brings back one for Abram, but when he refuses, Andrew throws it back. In spite of the blonde’s incredible control, his eyes slowly grow more unfocused and his jaw relaxes, turning to curiously look up at Abram between drinks. 

“Look who’s the short one now,” Abram teases from his perch on the couch, even though he only sits maybe eight inches taller on the low back of the couch. 

Andrew rolls his eyes and leans back onto Abram’s knees, lifting his glass to his lips. No response. Typical. Abram resigns himself to the silence, and relaxes against the wall with a tiny smile for the drunken masses crammed onto the ever-crowded dance floor. 

Black-banded forearms press against the wall on either side of his head and Abram goes near cross-eyed in an attempt to put Andrew’s face in focus as it hovers mere inches away from his. He blinks, taking inventory of whatever the  _ fuck _ just happened. 

The alcohol is blurring his thoughts together. With his back facing the dance floor, Andrew’s eyes look near black in the low light of the nightclub, and a few strands of his hair are damp from sweat. 

_ And he’s so, so, close.  _

Andrew raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the stunned look that’s probably on Abram’s face, and mockingly sways slightly back and forth to the music, barely audible now from the roaring in his ears. Abram is sweltering under his long, baggy clothes, and the proximity to Andrew  _ really _ isn’t helping matters. Multiple times, Abram tries to tear his gaze, to look at something that will calm him down and give him some hope of thinking rationally for a moment. However, Andrew seems content to keep an eye on him. 

Without thinking, Abram leans forwards, in a way that was supposed to be subtle, but Andrew draws back, a smug smirk plastered across his face. As if he was expecting it.  _ Asshole.  _

_ Must be the drinks.  _

_ This _ is why Abram hasn’t been anywhere near alcohol in months.  _ This _ is why Abram never uses painkillers or smokes weed. Even this little slip of control could go horribly wrong. 

But he trusts Andrew.

He trusts him.

The idea of trust is entirely foreign to him, and yet-

_ No, _ he shrugs the idea off. Taking inventory of his mental state, Abram concludes that he’s lucid enough to do what he wants, if not a little more bold than he’d normally be. This conclusion sets of sirens in the back of his mind, but he resolutely ignores him in favor of tilting his head up to Andrew’s once more. 

Again, he pulls away, an even more infuriating look on his face. As if he’s fully aware of the control he has in this situation. For once, Abram is content to place this little bit of control, however terrifying that may be, into Andrew’s hands. 

However, that doesn’t mean Abram doesn’t relish in the startled flash of Andrew’s eyes when he hooks his heel around the back of his thigh to tug him forwards. Andrew’s face steels itself back to neutral maybe half a second later, but Abram grins up at him anyway. 

“Wipe that dumb look off your face.”

Abram grins wider. 

“Make me.”

“You’re such a fucking cliche,” Andrew sighs and rolls his eyes, but complies and presses Abram flat against the wall. 

Abram’s long sleeves and pants hang loose, so there’s no skin to skin contact, but they’re mere millimeters apart, close enough for him to smell the alcohol from the drops of spilled drinks that stain Andrew’s shirt. He throws an arm loosely around Andrew’s neck, but drops it immediately when the blonde’s spine stiffens. 

“I-”

Andrew lightly threads their fingers together, calluses brushing Abram’s palm, and puts Abram’s arm back around his neck. 

“Just there,” he says steadily. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll stop me if you aren’t anymore?”

Something shifts in Andrew’s eyes, something akin to being taken aback. Abram almost asks what he’s thinking.

“I will.”  _ End of conversation,  _ his eyes say. 

“Okay.” 

Andrew leans down and presses their foreheads together. Abram tilts his head up as if to meet him halfway, but Andrew slowly draws back again, straightening up so that his frame towers higher above Abram.

“Can’t reach, shortie?” 

Abram pouts up at him in response, but Andrew smiles with something so close to fondness that it makes Abram’s chest ache. With an accompanying eye roll, Andrew takes his right hand off the wall and winds it in the baggy fabric of Abram’s shirt, tugging himself down to kiss him full on the mouth. 

He’s here.  _ Here.  _ The club lights blink dully through Abram’s closed eyes. Andrew’s hands are steady, and Abram knows the alcohol can’t be the only thing making the world feel like it’s shifting under his feet. 

_ Here, here, here.  _

  
  



	9. I Wish You Did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This chapter is a little on the short side, but we're hitting the last quarter of the story, and I'm so excited for y'all to read what's in store! :)

As Abram wakes the next morning, the booming music of the club pounds through his brain in the form of the first real hangover of his life. It’s not the worst pain he’s ever felt, but the sensation is too new to be pushed to the side like most injuries he’s had. And when he turns over onto his back, fabric shifts under him and sheets slip through his fingers. 

Sitting up with a jolt, Abram takes a quick inventory of where he is.

Andrew’s room.

Sun’s up.

And there’s a blonde boy curled on a messy stack of couch cushions and blankets on the floor to the right. 

Andrew’s face is pressed flat against the seam of a pillow, and, judging by indent down his right cheek, he turned onto his other side not too long ago. 

_ It’s a pretty picture,  _ Abram thinks, and he stares for a moment, taking it all in. Andrew’s expression is completely relaxed, and the sun makes shadows of the stray curls that fall over his face. And in his fist, the strap of Abram’s bag. 

Beating back the panic, he slides off the bed and unzips the top, checking for any unfolded tags on the collars of his shirts, exhaling softly when he finds them all in their place. 

_ So he didn’t look through my things.  _

Slowly, he climbs back into the bed, taking a deep breath as he presses his face into the pillow and winds his hands in the sheets. After a few minutes, he feels eyes on him, and he turns onto his side to find hazel eyes looking up at him. Andrew’s gaze immediately turns neutral, but Abram watches the shift and wonders what exactly it had been before. 

It really is strange. He wakes up in a  _ familiar _ bed, a few feet away from a  _ familiar _ boy, and there’s a  _ familiar _ scent on his clothes. Abram rolls the word over and over in his head.

_ Familiar. Familiar. Familiar.  _

Once you say a word enough times, it’ll stop sounding like anything at all. Then why does  _ familiar _ sound like the click of a lighter, the slam of locker doors, and the bass line of a song? 

Abram register’s Andrew’s open eyes a second before the blonde speaks.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Andrew is decidedly unimpressed.

“You know how.” 

“Do I?”

Andrew scoffs at him and turns over, tucking his arms around his pillow as if to go back to sleep. 

“Why did you take me to the bar?”  _ Why did you kiss me?  _ There’s so many questions left unasked and unanswered. “I thought you hated me.”  _ I wish you did.  _

“Does it matter?” For all his pretending, Andrew sounds alert, and something in his tone sounds near defensive.

_ About the bar? No. If you hate me? Yes.  _

“I don’t know.”  _ Lie. Please don’t hate me for it.  _

“Don’t ask me again until you do.” 

“Fine.”

\----------

“How long ago did you get those scars?”

Abram’s cigarette, nearly burned down to the filter, slips from his fingers and he hurriedly plucks it from the floor before it scorches the carpet, tossing it out the open window. Andrew only takes another drag from his. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb, Abram. It’s not a good look for you.” 

“But we never- we didn’t- you-”

“Your shirt is thin, and you didn’t make your best effort keeping your distance.” 

Every alarm is going off in Abram’s head. This is too close. Far too close. He should be already out the door by now, but Andrew’s eyes are pinning him in place. 

“But how did you know-”

Andrew places a delicate hand over Abram’s mouth and stares evenly up at him until he understands. 

_ Oh. _

“It was just an accident. A couple years ago. Some drunk driver.”

_ This. All of this was an accident.  _

Andrew doesn’t ask him again. 

\----------

“Andrew!” Nicky calls from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s almost two in the afternoon! You have to eat  _ something,  _ you know.” 

Andrew sighs in frustration and Abram feels the breath on his jaw, winding his hands lightly into Andrew’s hair. 

“Do they know I’m here?” 

“No,” Andrew says. “Do you want them to?”

_ No. You can’t. You shouldn’t. You have to go.  _

“I don’t care.” 

One look from Andrew shows that he’s well aware of exactly how nonchalant about this, which is to say, not at all. 

“Yes or no?”

_ No. Start running now before it’s too late.  _

_ Just a little longer.  _

“Yes.” 

(When Nicky and Aaron leave to run errands, Andrew presses Abram into the railing of the stairs and maybe, just maybe, the word  _ stay  _ comes to mind for the first time.)

  
  



	10. Attachments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while since I last published, but I'm very excited to put this chapter out! The one after this is more of a mini-chapter than anything, so I will be posting that today as well! I hope all you lovelies have an amazing day, and thank you so much for reading! :)

Abram has no idea what the rules are.

There are no exceptions to the rule of No Attachments. And yet, here he is, tucked in the quietest corner of the school, legs intertwined with the best goalie on seemingly every high school Exy team, who, best case scenario, will barely remember the brown-haired hazel-eyed boy that he snuck around with and kissed behind closed doors and just out of sight. Worst case scenario… Abram doesn’t even want to think about it. 

As if sensing his worry, Andrew's right hand slips from where it was resting in Abram’s hair to cradle his face, pulling away for a moment to look him directly in the eyes. When Abram nods, he shifts forwards and neither of them have to think anymore. 

\----------

“Abram Davis?” Mr. Possolo, Dean of Students, pokes his head through the door. “We need to see you in the office.” 

With a nod from the teacher, and deceptively slow brush of hands with Andrew, Abram is out the door. 

“Oh, you’re not in trouble, by the way,” Mr. Possolo says good-naturedly. “The meeting is some boring business things.” Glancing over at Abram, he sighs and shakes his head. “I should’ve told you to leave your backpack in class. You should be back in maybe ten minutes at the most.”

_ It’s fine. It’s not like Abram would’ve left any of his things unsupervised.  _

He just nods in response. 

They walk in silence for a couple more minutes to the principal’s office, but the inside of Abram’s head is screaming with new ideas and  _ what if they know _ and  _ how did they find out _ and  _ I knew I should have left.  _ When they reach the doors, he shoves the paranoia down as far as it’ll go and tells himself  _ it’s probably paperwork for some stupid class trip or something. Forging a signature or two shouldn’t be a problem.  _

“Hi, Abram,” Ms. Wagner greets him, offering a seat across from her at her desk. “I just wanted to clarify a couple things on your student record. It says here that you took Little League Exy for a couple years when you were a child, which allowed you to try out for our team which,” she grins conspiratorially at him, “I’ve heard you’ve been kicking ass on. Don’t tell your mother I said that.” 

His  _ mother.  _ “I won’t, don’t worry.”

“Good,” she laughs. “As you know, we have parent teacher conferences coming up, and you already sent an email to us last week about your mother being out of town during that time, but I was wondering if we could set one up a little earlier or later?”

“No, sorry, she’s going to be in Canada for a couple months. And she left two nights ago, otherwise it would’ve been alright,” Abram explains. All of it is bullshit, but in Ms. Wagner’s eyes at least, he has no reason to lie. 

“Well then, that’s alright. There’s always next semester. I’ll send her an email with your progress report.” 

“Alright,” Abram rises from his seat, and runs a hand through his hair.  _ Finally, he can leave.  _

“Oh, one more thing!” Ms. Wagner says, ruffling through a stack of papers for a moment before producing a suspiciously worn form. “Ah, here it is. You probably already know that this is a little league Exy team sign-up sheet, the one you gave us, specifically, but there’s a little thing we wanted to ask about. Your mother’s last name is different here, and we just wanted to check in and make sure our records aren’t wrong. By any chance, was Weber your mother’s maiden name?”

_ Shit. _

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and _ no, his voice does NOT shake _ . “She married my dad when I was nine.”

“And I understand that he’s no longer with us,” Ms. Wagner murmurs sympathetically.

_ Right. In this story, his father is dead. If only.  _

Abram hums in agreement and ducks his head as if about to cry, but he knows full well that if Ms. Wagner saw the panic in his eyes, it’d be all over. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to bring it up again now.”

“It’s fine.” 

She stands and places a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“That’s all. Thank you for your time, Abram.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

He hisses as his elbow hits the doorframe on the way out. 

\----------

Abram skips the last class and goes straight to the locker room. None of the coaches give him a second glance, but if they did, a free period was an acceptable alibi. It takes him ten minutes to slow his breathing. It takes him another five to make his hands stop shaking enough to secure his gear. He sits cross-legged on a bench as the rest of his teammates begin to file in with good-natured slaps to his helmet and pats on the back. 

_ This is it. _ He stands and jogs onto the court with the rest and gives them everything. 

Coach Torres is absolutely blindsided by how well Abram plays. 

\----------

One of his shirts is still in Andrew’s room. It’s one of the few that doesn’t have any holes left, and, worse than that, it’s a reminder. One that he can’t afford to leave behind. 

_ Two to the right, six to the left for the very last time.  _

In Abram’s life, there have been almost as many, if not more, lasts than firsts. He doesn’t remember the first time he saw his mother, but he remembers the last. He can’t picture seeing his fathers’ henchmen for the first time, but he can see them clearly, stained with blood, from two years ago when they spotted him outside a bar. How was he supposed to know that German IV was his and Andrew’s last? 

“I don’t remember letting you in.”

Abram turns, shirt in hand, to find Andrew Minyard standing in the doorway. 

“You didn’t.” 

Andrew’s eyes slowly go back and forth from the bags in Abram’s hands and the panicked look on his face. He’s not stupid. It doesn’t take a genius to guess. 

“You’re running.” Suddenly, Abram is thrown back into their living room, with wet hair and squelching shoes.  _ But it’s not a question this time.  _

Andrew is staring straight at him with the barely grief-stricken expression with which he had dropped a stack of clothes to the floor. Abram can’t answer. He won’t answer. But Andrew doesn’t need any of the bullshit that’s bound to come pouring out of his mouth. 

_ Maybe you could’ve kept me if I wasn’t already gone.  _

His back hits the windowsill before he could even register that Andrew took a step forwards, and he lets it happen. Lets Andrew push him until they have to pull together. Lets whatever is left of Abram Davis treasure the last of  _ this.  _ Of Andrew. Of matching hazel eyes and wispy blonde hair. Of cigarette smoke and careful touches. Of dead-eyed stares and warm hands. 

Andrew isn’t talking. Not a single word. He only looks Abram right in the eyes and traces the lines of his face over and over and over and over. His fingertips brush over the fabric of his sweatpants and up the line of his back. Andrew places his head in the crook of Abram’s neck and wraps his hands in the fabric of his sweatshirt. 

Abram’s breath catches.

“Tell me to hold on.” 

_ I’ll listen this time. Just a little longer.  _

Andrew steps away and his guard comes up like shutters closing over a window. 

“No.” 

  
  



	11. Long Gone

_ Flight 1774 to Millport, Alabama has begun boarding. Boarding groups A and B may get in line.  _

“Thank you, sir, have a nice flight.”

\----------

_ Palmetto State Foxes Take in Yet Another Set of Misfits: The Story Behind New Recruits Andrew Minyard, Aaron Minyard, and Nicky Hemmick.  _

Neil Josten shreds the newspaper in his hands. Nevermind that there are three shirts in his bag stained with black hair dye. Nevermind that the ones he left behind heard an offer they couldn’t refuse. Nevermind that Andrew Minyard is lost to the drugs, a mirror image of the brother he saved. 

He will not make the same mistake twice. 

  
  



	12. Tell Me To Hold On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to finally get to share this last chapter with all of you! Before the chapter begins, I just wanted to let y'all know that during the canon scenes, I used Nora's dialogue (with maybe a few alterations) to make sure that each scene is accurate to canon! If you recognize it, it's probably not mine! Thank you so much for reading! :)

Once his vision fades back from black, Neil recognizes him. It’s going to take a lot more than a couple of bruised ribs and an adrenaline spike to forget a face. 

“God damn it, Minyard, this is why we can’t have nice things.” 

_ Minyard. _

“Oh, Coach, if he was nice, he wouldn’t be any use to us, would he?”

_ Coach. It can’t be-  _

“He’s no use to us if you break him.”

“You’d rather I let him go? Put a band-aid on him and he’ll be as good as new.”

The two-fingered salute is the confirmation that he didn’t want or need. Andrew Minyard, all five fucking feet of him, is propped up against his locker, racquet in hand. Neil can only hope that the dyed hair and new contacts are enough to trick him for now.  _ Until he can run again _ . Hopefully, the shell-shocked look can be blamed on the fact that he just took a hit to the gut and fell to the ground. 

“Better luck next time.”

Andrew studies him with the air of someone bored with nothing better to do. His gaze traces the lines of Neil’s face over and over until their eyes meet. Something shifts. Andrew’s expression focuses, and something just short of recognition disappears as fast as it comes. Neil grapples for something, anything to distract him. 

“Fuck you, whose racquet did you steal?”

Andrew keeps his chin lifted, but his eyes away from where Neil is still sprawled inelegantly on the floor. Neil sways as he gets to his feet, but he won’t take his eyes off Andrew. Not for a second. Not if he can help it. 

“Borrow. Here you go.”

For a moment, Neil has no idea what he’s talking about, but he catches the racquet without hesitation. Andrew looks decidedly unimpressed. 

Neil grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches with the effort. He doesn’t know why he expected Andrew to be the same as he’d been months ago with someone whose name Neil isn’t supposed to know. Andrew has the same voice, the same sarcastic bite to his words, the same comfortable stance. But something isn’t right. This Andrew’s smile is sickly sweet. This Andrew trades his words flippantly with the grace of a prince. This Andrew is a side effect of whatever the courthouse put him through. Not that Neil knows any better. Neil Josten has never met Andrew Minyard in his life. 

\----------

“Get rid of that...” Kevin breathes, miming Andrew’s gesture across his too-wide smile. 

Betsy shifts back and forth on her feet behind Andrew, her mouth pressed into a thin line, waiting for Kevin to understand.

“It’s too early.”  _ There it is. _ “What do you think you’re doing?”

“The right thing.” Betsy’s words are firm, and her expression is unapologetic, but she closes her eyes to take a shaky breath. 

Andrew whirls around triumphantly, his voice rising in pitch with every word. 

“Look at that face, Bee. He wants me sober more than almost anyone does, but only if the timing’s right. I warned you, didn’t I? Who will take care of Kevin if I’m gone? I can’t trust him wandering around here by himself, and Coach can’t be with him all the time. Kevin’s kind of a full-time job.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Wymack says, but his grim tone makes it sound more like a murder contract than a comfort. 

“Oh come on, Coach,” Andrew shakes his head and pouts like a four-year-old, “You’ve got to do better than that. Try again; I’ll wait here while you think of something more convincing to say.” 

For the first time, the entire group is at a loss for words. 

“I’ll watch him.” 

Whatever possessed Neil to offer himself, he has no clue. He has no interest in keeping Kevin alive. He couldn’t care less if the idiot cried himself to sleep every night with an exy racquet in his arms. Kevin represents everything that he was trying to lose when he ran to Millport, and Neil wants his collateral damage back. 

“You?” Andrew says incredulously, smiling faltering before coming back three times brighter. Neil feels sick just watching him. 

Andrew shoves him twice, and Neil stumbles, tugging the blonde with him the second time. He won’t fall as hard if Andrew thinks he’ll hit the ground too. 

“Oh, Neil.” English morphs into German, and for half a second, Neil is sitting in an air-conditioned classroom with a warm hand in his. “You and I both know you have a dreadful sense of humor, so this can’t be a joke. What do you think you’re saying? What are you trying to do?”

As if he has even the slightest idea himself. 

“Verantwortung übernehmen.”  _ Take responsibility, _ he says instead. For what might have been. For the people that he’d left behind. For the tattoo on Kevin’s face that could have been his. For the brother that Aaron couldn’t save back. For whatever part of him still looked at Andrew and wanted  _ just a little longer _ .

“Usually, such a good liar, but you aren’t fooling anyone.” Andrew stares levelly at him, a picture of disapproving disbelief. “Am I to believe you’ll hold your ground if Riko comes at you? Maybe I’ll come back and you won’t be here anymore.” 

Neil stiffens, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Something accusatory flashes in Andrew’s eyes. Cut the word  _ maybe _ and make the last sentence past tense and there’s an indictment for abandonment written across his forehead. 

Not this time.

“If I was going to leave I would have done so at the banquet when Riko called me by my name. I won’t lie and say I didn’t think about it, but I decided to stay. I trusted you more than I was scared of him. So trust me now if you can. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll take care of Kevin until you return.” 

“Trust you.” Even to Neil, the words sound empty. Andrew reaches up and takes a firm hold of Neil’s chin. “You lie, and lie, and lie, and you think I’ll trust you with his life?”

“Then don’t trust ‘Neil’. Trust me.”

Andrew tilts his head to one side, eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, but who are you? Do you have a name?”

“If you need one, call me Abram.” 

Andrew’s fingers loosen on his chin until they’re barely touching it. He doesn’t look surprised, but something is different, as if a part of him has come undone. Abram, the name that had only passed his mother’s lips before he pulled a little league exy sign-up sheet from his documents and walked into school as Abram Davis. The name that Andrew wouldn’t say that last day before Abram was gone forever. Instead, Neil’s last memory of that name was from the mouth of a school principal that would never know more than a troubled teenager with a dead dad and absent mom. 

“Should I believe that?”

Andrew’s voice is even, but he speaks lowly, as if the rest of this conversation had been a show. The curtains are down and they’re alone backstage.

“I’m named after my father. Abram is my middle name; it’s the name my mother used when she was trying to protect me from his work. Ask Kevin if you don’t believe me. He would know.” 

“Maybe I will.”

He wouldn’t. There’s a whisper of victory in Andrew’s words, but his mouth keeps twisting, as if he can’t be sure of whether or not the drugs have poured another fantasy into his hands. 

If he wants surety, Neil can give it to him. 

In one movement, he slips Andrew’s hand over the elastic of his sweatpants and under his shirt until his entire hand sits on the ghosts of knife cuts and cigarette burns. As if from muscle memory, Andrew’s fingertips trace the lines of his scars, his eyes not leaving Neil’s once as the familiarity of the gesture threatens to overwhelm them both. Andrew’s hands are warmer than Neil remembers them being through the fabric of his old, baggy, shirts, and he resists the urge to twist his hands into Andrew’s hair. 

“Do you understand? Nothing Riko does will make me leave him. We will both be here when you get back.”

Andrew’s hands twitch in the direction of the scars at Neil’s waist, but they don’t move.

“Someone lied to me. These ouches feel a little rough for a child on the run.” 

“The story I gave you was mostly true. I might have left out some critical details, but I know you’re not really surprised by that. If we survive this year and you’re still interested, you can ask me for them later. I think it’s your turn in our secrets game anyway.” 

_ Your turn, but we’re even now.  _

Their little staring contest ends when Andrew practically dances back to Kevin’s side, smiling complacently up at him before changing back to English.

“It’ll have to do, won’t it?”

Everyone within earshot seems to relax, and Andrew announces something about checking on Nicky before pushing past Wymack down the hall. 

Kevin and Wymack keep talking, and at some point, Wymack asks “when did that happen?”  _ He knew me under a different name and he was my first of firsts worth anything _ would make them ask too many questions. “When did what?” will have to do for now. 

Neil resolutely moves to stand next to the car door. He and Andrew won’t be making a pattern of leaving without saying goodbye. 

“Andrew. Don’t leave me alone with these morons for too long. I’m getting too old to deal with their drama,” Wymack calls after him as Andrew strides towards the car. 

“Oh, you and me both,” Andrew replies flatly, without looking over his shoulder. 

It occurs to Neil that the odds of Andrew passing right by him without another word are high, to say the least. 

Just as Andrew sets foot on the inside of the car, he plants the other foot on the concrete and tugs on Neil’s sweatshirt until he’s pressed against the inside of the car door. The inner handle digs into the bottom of his spine and the window is cold where his shirt rides up at the small of his back. Andrew’s chin tips to his chest, a puff of breath grazing Neil’s jaw, and he stares at his own hands, which are pressing Neil’s to the car windowsill, as if wondering how they got there in the first place. 

Slowly, Andrew tilts his face until it’s parallel to Neil’s, a stray curl brushing the space between Neil’s eyes. 

“Tell me to hold on,” Andrew says, lips barely an inch away from Neil’s. He almost sounds sober. 

“I’ll say it when you get back.” 

Andrew’s hands slip away, and Neil is pushed lightly away from the car before the door slams shut and the engine comes to life. Neil looks in the eyes of an addict for the last time.

\----------

Outside forces aside, every time Neil ran, it was on his own terms. This time would be no different. 

Jackson and Romero are neither out of sight nor out of mind. Neil can’t afford to ignore them. But this is his last goodbye, and the last of his many regrets. And he’ll be damned if he can’t go out with a bang, even if he’s not the one holding the fuse. 

He finds his way back to the team, and Nicky makes a joke as Neil enters the room. It’s so  _ like them _ that Neil forces himself not to wince. 

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.  _ For everything. For what I’m about to do.  _

Like clockwork, the Foxes gather their gear and various duffel bags and get ready to load everything into the bus. Neil doesn’t move, instead trying to look at each of them one last time. 

Dan, leaning on Matt as he whispers something in her ear and laughs. Nicky, skipping beside Aaron with a grin, in spite of the annoyed look on the blonde’s face. Allison, flipping her hair over her shoulder while lifting more than her share of bags into her arms. Renee, standing on her tiptoes to kiss Allison on the cheek for carrying her racquet for her as she rests her own duffel on her hip. Kevin, still shaken from Riko’s assault, but all the while holding his head high as he walks towards the camera flashes and shouting reporters. And Andrew. Andrew, who’s studying Neil’s face with a focused intensity that makes something twist just under his ribs. 

He can’t say goodbye to him. To any of them. Neither Jackson nor Romero speak German, but anything that could be interpreted as deception would put all of them at risk. 

“Thank you,” the words slip out before Neil can think. “You were amazing.”

A couple people stop moving just inside his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t look away.

Neil’s  _ just a little longer _ has run out. But he won’t try to slip away without at least trying to say goodbye. Not again. 

Hopefully this is close enough. 

\----------

His skin burns and blood drips down his fingertips. 

“Alex, Chris, Stefan, Abram, and now Neil,” Lola mocks him. 

_ Abram. _ His muscles strain against the bonds around his wrists. 

Nathaniel doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t remember any of them.

\----------

“A dashboard lighter.” 

The foxes are an array of the stages of grief. Kevin covers his own tattoo. Nicky makes a sound as if he’s been struck, and Aaron follows him with a groan. The German speakers are hit the hardest, but Dan’s knuckles are pale from the effort of holding onto Matt’s shirt as he strains to get to Nathaniel. 

“Jesus, Neil. The fuck did they do to you?” Matt nearly chokes as he asks, and his voice is reminiscent of one who’s been screaming for too long. 

Matt’s comment seems to summon Abby, who promptly strides towards the bed, a mirror of motherly concern with the fim-set jaw of a nurse. 

Nathaniel’s head is turned sharply by a tight grip on his chin. 

“Get away from us.” He watches Andrew’s lips move, knowing that Abby must have stopped when she responds.

“Andrew,” she coaxes. “He’s hurt. Let me see him.”

“If you make me repeat myself you will not live to regret it.” 

His words are harsh, and his voice is steady, but Nathaniel sees the control in Andrew’s eyes start to slip. 

After a little explanation, his twenty minutes is almost up. All his life has been on a timer, but this one is so much shorter and infinitely more precious to him. 

“Andrew, they want to take me away from here. They want to enroll me in the Witness Protection Program so my father’s people can’t find me. I don’t want-”  _ No. He’s not in the place to want anything.  _ “If you tell me to leave, I’ll go.” 

Their relationship is one of give and take. Of loving and leaving. The grip on Nathaniel’s collar tightens and he knows that his future is right in front of him. And he will hold onto it as tight as he can. 

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Andrew switches back to English, raising a challenge for the Foxes to take. “You’re staying with us. If they try to take you away they will lose.” 

“Take you away,” Dan repeats. “To where?”

“Are we talking about ‘away for some questioning’ or ‘away for good’?” Matt continues, voice rising in volume as he stares down the agent. 

“Both,” Browning says. 

With measured stillness, the team responds with the likes of “You can’t have him.” (Nicky), and “What part of ‘go to hell’ do you need us to explain to you?” (Allison). Even Wymack, in spite of the jab Browning makes about putting his team in danger, tells Nathaniel to make his own decision. The Foxes would stand with him. After  _ everything _ . 

He doesn’t know if he deserves it. 

“Can I really be Neil again?” Nathaniel asks later, a seatbelt pressing into a wound on his chest and knee bumping Andrew’s with every pothole. 

“I told Neil to stay,” Andrew replies, pressing the side of his thigh to Nathaniel’s. “Abram went away and came back. That’s enough names for anyone. Leave Nathaniel buried in Baltimore with his father.”

It’s almost impossible to believe that any of this is possible. Andrew knows him, knows Neil, knows Nathaniel, knows Abram, and he finds him worth keeping. Maybe with him, just a little longer can turn into forever. 

“Neil Abram Josten,” Neil tests the words on his tongue. They taste like stolen beer, cheap cigarettes, and something he’s never been able to identify until now. 

_ Home. _

\----------

Neil towels his hair dry before putting on boxers and pulling one of his many oversized sweaters over his head. What can he say? Old habits die hard. 

Andrew is already curled up under the sheets, but sleepily folds open the covers in a silent invitation. Just to be obnoxious, Neil takes a running leap onto the mattress causing Andrew to fly a couple inches up when the springs give under his weight. 

“126%” Andrew murmurs groggily, turning onto his back in the now-rumpled sheets, one arm thrown over his eyes. 

Neil only grins at him before sliding under the blankets, placing his head on Andrew’s shoulder and throwing an arm over his waist. 

“I hate you,” Andrew mutters, in spite of the hand that comes to rest in Neil’s curls. 

“Love you too.” 

Andrew’s other hand drags over Neil’s spine and over his jaw to cradle his face, tracing over the scar on his cheek before pressing a kiss over the same spot. Neil feels himself flush all the way up his ears and down the back of his neck.  _ This _ . The quiet moments, the gentle moments, the soft touches and steady heartbeats. It’s  _ everything.  _ Everything that Abram was cheated of. Everything Neil gets a second chance at. And maybe he’s truly lucky to have the privilege of spending two lives with Andrew Minyard. 

His nose brushes Andrew’s collarbone and he gets a hum in response, followed by the barest hint of a smile when Neil seals it with a kiss and tangles their legs together. 

Some people haunt this world instead of living it. Nathaniel Wesininski was damned to be a ghost. But Neil Josten? He is alive and breathing, tucked into the arms of his first and only exception. 

Andrew’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes nearly brushing his cheekbones, but his fingertips continue to toy with a few messy red strands of hair. Neil tilts his chin up to nose along Andrew’s jawline and feels his breathing hitch. 

“Tell me to hold on.”

Hazel eyes meet blue, and Neil is so lost in Andrew that he almost misses his reply, so soft that only Neil could possibly hear. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I can't believe that we're here! Last chapter of a fic that I've been working on for FIVE months!! (Since November of last year!) It's been such a wild ride and I'm so proud to have finished it. Thank you so much to all of you for sticking with me and saying all the lovely things you have about my writing! Y'all give me so much inspiration to write and I'm so thankful for all of you! (Oh no I'm getting emotional ack nonononono) But seriously, thank you guys so much for all the support, all the reading, all the love! I'm definitely going to miss working on this and hearing from y'all after every update! All my love, Cath <3 
> 
> (If you want to come say hi, my Tumblr is @youve-cath-to-be-kitten-me!(+Writing Blog! @notsomagicath))


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